


For Life

by loftyperch



Series: For Life [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Murder and Cannibalism, Drunk Sex, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Murder Family, Season 2 Fix-It, Softcore Food Porn, all that good stuff, but not really, just a little tipsy sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-10-29 07:43:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loftyperch/pseuds/loftyperch
Summary: "Wolves mate for life, y'know.""Are you drunk, Will?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My personal version of the Murder Family's adventures.
> 
> With sex!
> 
> This fandom is brand new to me (I finally got around to watching Hannibal, like, less than a month ago), so be gentle with me ;)

Hannibal whisked us all away to Dulles, where we took the first flight we could. We landed in Logan as the sun rose. From there, a rented car took us north on empty back roads through miles and miles of forest. Tiny towns skittered past, and we made good, quiet time. All three of us took turns behind the wheel, the others napping lightly. We couldn’t eat, too anxiously celebratory to be hungry.

We were running ... so why did it feel like we were hunting?

As the sun set, we pulled up to a Victorian mansion in the middle of nowhere, Maine. Wordless, cloaked in darkness, we filed in and went upstairs. Three bodies hit three beds, and we slept like the dead. I didn’t dream. When I woke, untold hours later, to the golden spring sunshine, I’d never felt better or more rested.

But then I rolled over, and no one was there to share it with me. I’d half expected another scent, another warmth beside me, and felt a pang of loss when I didn’t find it.

Ravenous hunger drove me out of bed, though, overrode my instinct to mope. And then as soon as I opened the door something greeted me like a kiss, a smell so good I almost kissed it right back. It was just the convenience store bacon and eggs we’d bought on the road, but I could barely navigate the stairs in my weak-kneed anticipation.

Abigail sat perched at the kitchen counter, already well into her breakfast. Hannibal was washing dishes, but dried his hands to pass me a steaming plateful of heaven. Something surged up from my lungs and out of my mouth, and I didn’t have the blood sugar to suppress it.

“God, I love you.” 

As soon as I said them (moaned them, really), the words hit the floor and smashed like one of our damned teacups.

Hannibal blinked a sudden fear out of his eyes, and his smile, which had been so real only a second before, turned false. I coughed self-consciously and sat down beside Abigail. She bit her lip in a knowing, teasing grin.

“Hannibal, come eat with us. I’ll do the dishes,” she commanded, imperious in her certainty that he could deny her nothing. “It was always my chore growing up. I kind of enjoy it.”

“Very well,” he obeyed, implicitly trusting her with the responsibility. “But I warn you, there will always be a great many dishes to do in our home, so don’t be afraid to make Will help you.” 

And just like that, things were back to normal, or at least what I _hoped_ was the new normal. We were alive, we were happy, and we were a family. What more could any man ask for? 

_What more, indeed?_

My eyes unintentionally fluttered up to Hannibal’s face to check on his smile. It was real again, though somewhat less brilliant than it had been. His gaze met mine, and I caught another flicker of the fear I so rarely saw there.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, of no one in particular, before shoving two whole strips of tender, crispy bacon down my throat.

“Abigail had the excellent notion of doubling back. I can call in a favor and arrange for three people to set out on foot toward the Canadian border. We can head south, camping our way back to an airport, thence to wherever we desire.”

I nodded my understanding and approval. Once I’d started stuffing my face, I found it impossible to stop for chit chat.

“Hannibal will take care of the provisions, and we can go pick up some gear,” Abigail continued brightly.

I gave a thumbs up.

“So where would you like to go?” Hannibal asked, looking only at me.

I swallowed my too-big mouthful of eggs with too little chewing.

“You mean for camping equipment?”

“No,” he chuckled fondly. “Europe? South America? Azerbaijan?”

“Japan.” I didn’t even have to consider it. 

“Did you read my mind?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Japan’s a logical choice: very far away, lots of tourists in the cities, access to other remote locations, we could teach English for cover ...”

“The art, the food, the architecture …” Hannibal trailed off dreamily.

And so it was settled. We finished eating and set to our tasks. Abigail tended the dishes, while I showered and Hannibal planned a menu.

\-------------------------

“Want some lunch?” I asked outside a sporting goods store at noonish, arms full of clothes and boots. 

“Nah.” Abigail carried our tent, and I _knew_ she had to be getting hungry by then. We’d already been to three stores, and we had dozens more purchases to inconspicuously spread around.

“You sure?” I cast my eyes to a pizza joint across the street.

“It might sound weird, but … I don’t really want to eat other people’s food anymore. It just feels gross.”

“No, I get it.” With no malice whatsoever, I realized that Abigail might be _our_ daughter, but she took after Hannibal. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“It’s like you can taste how much he loves us.”

\---------------------------

We were late getting home, reduced to communicating in grunts by our profound hunger. We left the car full of our purchases and bolted through the twilight to the front door. The air within was warm and heavy with the scent of pot roast.

Hearing the stampede, Hannibal left the kitchen to welcome us, and Abigail took a running leap into his arms. I had to restrain myself from doing the same. Not wanting a repeat of this morning’s embarrassment, I turned back to hang up my coat.

“Sorry we’re late,” I said, feeling once more that there was something _missing_, that this moment was inadequate in some way. I was rolling over to an empty pillow all over again.

“An eventuality that I allowed for by using the crock pot. Wash up, and I’ll start plating.”

I berated myself for being so eager to find something wrong with my new life. I always did that, found molehills to turn into mountains. We were alive, we were happy, and we were a family. Dinner was even waiting when I got home from a long day. What more could any man _possibly_ want?

Hannibal ducked back into the kitchen.

_What more indeed?_

\------------------------------

The dining room was a little daunting for me, not as cozy as stools at the counter, but I could see how happy it made Hannibal to serve one last real dinner before we set out on a camping trip of indefinite duration.

“The roast is local, grass-fed beef, cooked low and slow with root vegetables, herbs and brown sugar. On the side are whipped red potatoes and a dark leafy salad.” He’d tried so hard to present the rustic fare elegantly (and mostly succeeded). Such a pity it wouldn’t last long. “I’ve chosen to pair it with a hearty pinot noir.”

We all clinked our glasses, Abigail and I fidgeting with excitement.

Two helpings and two glasses of wine later, I was restored to my usual <del>cheerful</del> self.

Hannibal and I unloaded the car and packed for the trip, while Abigail washed the dishes. The fire crackled softly in the sitting room, and music wafted, muffled, from the kitchen. 

We hadn’t really talked since Baltimore, at least not in any meaningful way. Maybe _that_’s what I’d been missing. But I was far too focused on my work to choose an acceptable icebreaker. Our very lives could depend on how well we prepared. I asked only relevant questions, and the quiet between us was neither particularly contentious nor particularly companionable.

“Thank you, Will, for choosing me,” Hannibal murmured when we were nearly done, “over your morals, over your career, over your dogs.” He turned toward me, but avoided eye contact.

“It was a difficult choice. Mostly because of the dogs.” I winked. “But they weren’t a suitable substitute for a family.”

“Then you’re … _satisfied_ with this arrangement?”

“I guess I don’t really know yet. I do feel like there’s something else that I need … I just haven’t figured out what it is.”

“Perhaps you can’t name it because you’ve never needed it before.” He finished packing our food and decisively zipped up his backpack. “Or perhaps we just need to get you a puppy.”

I tried not to smile too sappily, to just quietly file that away as an Official Promise in the ol’ memory vault. “What about you? Are you satisfied?”

“I lost my entire family as a child. I never expected to find another one, let alone one that would accept me for who I am …” He chose his next words carefully. “I know what I need, Will … but I don’t know how to ask for it.”

“Maybe you’ve never had to ask for it before.”

He met my gaze warily, as if he expected to be struck or stabbed. As if he were afraid again.

“Come to think of it, I never have.”

“Dishes are done,” chirped Abigail as she swept into the living room.

“Would you be a dear and lay out our clothes for the morning?” The sight of her snapped Hannibal back to practicality. “Then I have a gift for you.”

She dashed off, and we buttoned up the last of our bags.

When Abigail returned, Hannibal presented her with a slender hunting rifle. It was old, but immaculately maintained.

“I had it shipped from my family home. It was once my mother’s, and it would have been my sister’s one day. Now it is yours.”

Respectful of the gun’s deep significance, she said only a heartfelt “Thank you.” (Meanwhile, _I_ was fighting back tears of overwhelming, unnamable emotion.)

She kissed us each on the cheek and said her goodnights. The way she scampered up the stairs, though, made me think she’d be up for a few hours acquainting herself with the pretty little Mauser.

Hannibal wedged a few boxes of ammunition into her backpack, then announced he’d be turning in as well.

“I know we all need to be on our toes at this sensitive juncture, but would it be acceptable for me to have another drink or two?”

“I can’t say I recommend hiking with a hangover, but you don’t need to ask for permission. This is freedom; embrace it.”

“Then I’ll go raid the liquor cabinet.”

\-------------------------

I poured a couple fingers of bourbon and brought it out to the back porch, where I could see the moon behind the trees and smell a chilly spring on the wind. Too early for the buzz of insects, I heard only the occasional mutterings of a night bird and the gentle clatter of bare branches. I reached back inside to turn off the last downstairs light, the better to appreciate the moonlight.

Out there it was easier to think, and I was able to replay the events of the day in peace: breakfast, shopping, dinner, the things I’d said and hadn’t said. A pattern immediately jumped out at me: I wanted to show my family affection, with touch and with words. It was easier to demonstrate my affection for Abigail, easier to keep from calling her ‘princess’ or ‘pumpkin’ when I felt comfortable patting her on the back or tousling her hair. The problem was specifically with Hannibal. I was never a touchy feely person, not even with friends or lovers. In particular, getting touchy feely with other men had been actively discouraged by my upbringing.

Even now, the vaguest thought of brushing my fingers down Hannibal’s arm or resting my head on his shoulder made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I couldn’t say whether that reaction was in response to shame or fear of rejection. A few small, slow swallows of bourbon helped me push past the discomfort and imagine what it would be like to take his hand in mine. I had to close my eyes because _that_ image made me dizzy. I wondered what it would be like to reach beneath the dinner table and squeeze his knee, and I had to grab hold of the railing. I felt myself lean in as if to kiss him, and my eyes snapped open, my heart pounding.

There was a wolf in the yard, staring at me. She must have slipped out of the woods while I’d been distracted. She looked me over and gave a little huff, and another wolf, even bigger, appeared from the shadows behind her. I could tell instinctively that they were a mated pair. 

I didn’t move again until they decided I wasn’t food and wove their way back between the trees. Then I tossed the rest of my drink down my throat.

The next thing I knew, I was knocking on Hannibal’s bedroom door, and he was answering in nothing but his slacks and an unbuttoned dress shirt.

“Wolves mate for life, y’know,” I said, as if it were the most logical segue in the world.

“Are you drunk?” He seemed only amused and stood aside to let me in.

“A little tipsy.” I shut the door behind me. “I’m afraid of having this conversation with you, so I had to lower my inhibitions … just a bit.”

“A conversation about wolves?” Hannibal lifted an eyebrow.

“And stags. Wolves find a mate and settle down to raise their family, but stags rut with every doe they meet and then disappear forever.”

“Though both are potent symbols of the violence of nature and the thrill of the hunt, one is predator and one is prey.” He closed the small space between us with a purposeful step. “We are not prey, Will.”

I took him by both sides of his collar and pulled his mouth to mine. It took every ounce of my not-inconsiderable courage to do so, but I was so glad I did. The constant fog of angst at the edges of my brain evaporated in the face of overstimulation. All I knew, all I felt, was that I was loved and wanted and _hard_. It was a moment of true clarity.

When he pulled away I whined.

“Is this was you needed?”

“Yeah. Did you figure out how to ask for what you needed?”

“Yes. This morning … were you talking to me or the bacon?”

“You. And I meant it.”

After that, things turned very wolf-like indeed. I shoved him onto his ridiculous four poster, and he tore my shirt getting it off. There were barks and bites as we shed our clothes, growls as we nipped at necks and ears. Then came a howl of pleasure, muffled by my arm, when he slid two slick fingers inside me. I might have been crying at that point, I couldn’t even tell. As he slowly and surely opened me up, he ducked his head and sucked my cock. I tried to say his name, but it came out sounding much more like “I want you to fuck me.”

Obligingly, he released me from my torture and kissed his way up my body. When he was in a position to do so, he ended the trail of kisses and just watched me, watched the twist of my features as he sank balls deep in my ass. I shook in agony, writhed in ecstasy, and clutched his shoulders hard enough to bruise. We both lost whatever sense of control or direction we might have had, grinding and snapping our hips in erratic rhythm, tasting only sweat and skin, seeing only each other, knowing only _here_ and _now_.

Hannibal fell suddenly to the side, his momentum carrying me with him. Curious, I sat up and let my full weight force me down, gasping each time the head of his cock hit its target deep within me, relentless and accurate and hot enough to burn. He moved a hand from my thigh to my twitching erection, and with a cry of startled joy, I came in great gouts over his hand and stomach.

Then I said _it_ again, just as unintentionally as the first time.

“God, I love you!”

Then he was gasping, too, eyes shut as he twitched and marked me irrevocably from the inside out. No one had ever come inside me before. No one had ever _been_ inside me before! And I knew, with no uncertainty, that no one but him would ever have me in such a way again.

What more could I ask for?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trippy dreams, guest stars, and a few smatterings of plot! 
> 
> And Hannibal’s such a good murderer, he can even kill the mood *rim tap*

“Always happy to help, Jack,” said Hannibal as he stood to go, coat over his arm.

I was vaguely aware that I was dreaming this memory, or remembering this dream, embellishing the truth as I relived it …

Jack closed the office door behind our departing guest.

“You’ve fucked him, haven’t you?” he accused. In life I only invented that accusation out of anxiety, extrapolating from his posture and scowl.

“I have no sexual interest in serial killers,” I sneered. 

He believed me, and, in the distant past of two weeks ago, it had been true.

Then I was no longer in Jack’s office, but in Hannibal’s dining room, shoving a tiny bird in my mouth. I saw with great clarity, what Hannibal had been trying to show me. I swallowed. In hindsight I saw the design of it, how the ortolans were meant to evoke oral sex. In hindsight I saw my missed opportunity. 

I grabbed Hannibal’s hand and told him I needed to talk, as I had that night. We went to his office, but instead of confessing my betrayal, I sat him in his chair and fell to my knees. He was made nervous by my aggressive behavior, and I enjoyed making him nervous. He tried to stand, to politely insist that I didn’t need to do this, but when I opened his fly, he was already thick and hard for me, jutting out in juxtaposition to his prim, proper suit. 

And then I was on my knees, in Maine, at god-knows o’clock, and my name, as far I as I knew, was Will Graham. Hannibal was still inside me, the hint of pain grounding me in reality. 

I ducked my head under the wave of self-consciousness that always accompanied my first time with someone. It would be easier the second time, but just then I wanted desperately to hide behind my glasses.

“They’re on the nightstand,” he whispered when he noticed I was looking everywhere but at him. He knew as well as I did what the glasses _meant_. “You don’t have to stay. If you’re having regrets -” 

“If I were having regrets I’d be driving back to Baltimore,” I cut him off with a grim laugh. “I’m just a little overwhelmed; I’ll be fine in the morning.” My fingers hovered mid-reach, trembling on the cusp of a decision between two unknown options. Letting my hand decide for itself, I disregarded the glasses and clicked off the lamp. 

We shrouded ourselves in cool cotton sheets, and the darkness filled with the rustle of fabric. We said nothing, only kissed and held each other close.

Wolves in our den.

\--------------------------

I woke to find the sun not quite risen. I rolled over, and no one was there. Had I dreamt more than just ortolans and offices? _No._ This wasn’t my bed, and I could smell Hannibal on his still-warm pillow. My ass was sore, and my thighs were wet.

The shower hissed on in the bathroom, and I had to weigh my options. I could drift off again, content to let him have some alone time; this couldn’t be very easy on him either, and he was very used to dealing with things on his own. But on the other hand ... _showering with Hannibal_.

I didn’t announce myself when I entered the bathroom, I knew he could smell me coming.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked from the sink, splashing cold water on my face.

“You’re not the only one who has nightmares.”

Taking the deliberate mood kill for what it was, I declined the almost apologetic invitation that followed it. All my stuff was in the guest bathroom, anyway. And there were other ways I could cheer him up.

“Mind if I make breakfast today?”

\---------------------------

Once we were clean and dressed, we met in the kitchen, and he watched in calm delight as I bustled about. I set the French press to steeping and chopped up a little fruit salad. While that chilled in three delicate bowls, I pried the last of the bacon from its package and boiled some water for oatmeal.

Abigail stretched and yawned her way through the door, pausing only briefly at the sight of anyone other than Hannibal at the stove.

“You should dry your hair, darling, there’s quite a frost this morning,” her other father chided.

“After food. Too hungry.”

“I can fix that.” I beamed, absurdly proud, as I laid out three bowls of oatmeal drizzled with honey, three fruit salads topped with yogurt, and three small plates of extra crispy bacon sprinkled with cracked black pepper. “Coffee, anyone?”

As the chef, I found the silence that descended extremely gratifying.

Alas, it was interrupted by Hannibal’s phone ringing in his coat pocket. Retrieving it promptly, he answered.

“Good morning, Margot, I hope you don’t mind if I put you on speaker.” He placed the phone on the table and dove right back into his oatmeal.

“I’m afraid there’s been a setback. The decoys are all lined up, but their flight was delayed. They won’t be there until tonight. If you need to leave now -”

“This could actually work to our advantage.” Hannibal threw me a wink. “We didn’t get much of a chance to rest yesterday.”.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“As well as can be expected,” she deadpanned. “You?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I gotta go help Mason interview new psychiatrists, but I’ll call you as soon as I have an ETA.”

“What an unexpected pleasure,” mused Hannibal as he hung up. “Whatever shall we do with our time?”

“I think we should leave Jack a message,” I suggested with a wink of my own.

\-------------------

“Were they here?” Jack demanded, sweeping into the master bedroom.

Zeller nodded. “Three or four days ago.”

Jack’s eyes drifted around the room. At first glance it looked like there had been a struggle; a chair had gouged its way along the hardwood floor, the bedclothes were in disarray, a curtain had been torn from the window. But there was no blood on anything, nothing smashed or even overturned. “What happened?” 

“Sex,” answered Price without missing a beat. “Like a _lot_ of sex. In my professional opinion, they did it in bed first. Then over the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours, they proceeded to make use of the chair, the floor by the window, and then the bed again.”

“Are you trying to tell me this was _consensual_?”

“Oh, please,” Zeller snorted. “You never saw them making eyes at each other across cadavers? For two years?”

“I guess I didn’t _want_ to see it.”

Hearing his name shouted from the hallway, Jack slipped out and ran to an urgently beckoning Katz. She pulled him into the farthest, smallest bedroom and gestured decisively at the twin bed.

“An auburn hair. Just like at the Baltimore house.”

“We haven’t gotten a positive ID on that yet.” He didn’t want to see _this_ either.

“It’s Abigail, Jack, I know it. She’s alive, and she’s with them.”

“Why would Lecter go to all the trouble to fake her death?” Why had he faked Miriam Lass’ death?

“At least tell me you’ll have someone go over the airport surveillance again. I bet you my pension she’s there somewhere.”

“Sure,” he sighed. “I gotta take a walk.”

In a disillusioned daze, Jack descended to the backyard, where local cops were poring over faint footprints in the spring-softened ground. He’d seen horrific violence in his years with the bureau, bodies in every state of decomposition … yet it was this bloodless, _bizarre_ situation that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He’d spent days convincing himself that this was a kidnapping, that he was rescuing Will from death and desecration. And he’d been so, so wrong. He knew it in his gut, just like his team did; Will and Hannibal were in love, they had their daughter back, and they were probably in Quebec already. _Hell, they could be halfway to Puerto Vallarta by now._

“This is all my fault,” he said in defeat when he heard Katz follow him onto the porch.

“It’s _Lecter’s_ fault, Jack.”

“No. I pushed Will right up to the edge … even though I knew the only thing keeping him from falling over it was one dead teenager.”

“Which is probably why Lecter went to all the trouble to fake her death.”

“As soon as he gave her back, he’d have Will wrapped around his little finger.”

“Not just his finger, if the bedroom is any indication.” She nudged his arm, trying to coax a laugh.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jack announced, almost before he knew he meant it. “I give up. I retire. I belong with my wife, not … _here_.”

Katz couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she believed what she saw in his eyes.

“I’ll miss you, Jack. We all will.”

“You’ll always know where to find me.”

“Maybe we won’t even need to. The Chesapeake Ripper has a family now.” Her sorrow rolled briskly off her shoulders, and she smiled with cautious optimism. “A quiet retirement might be looking pretty good to him, too.”

“For all our sakes, I hope you’re right.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camping and dreaming.

When the decoys arrived, we shook their hands and gratefully accepted their car keys. From there, we drove through the night, ditching our ride at a seedy motel and continuing south on foot.

Our plan was to camp until our supplies ran out (supplemented by whatever we could glean from the forest), then cut over to the nearest town. Hopefully, what we’d packed would last until we reached a safe distance. _Well, a significant distance. Even Japan’s not at a _safe_ distance._

The illegal backcountry camping was a paradise of surreality. Suddenly Abigail and I were the ones with all the expertise and confidence. Hannibal hid his discomfort admirably and never once complained, but he radiated a constant aura of missing his bed and his kitchen and his fancy clothes … and, y’know, showers and shaving and toilets.

Having anticipated this, I’d squeezed a few luxuries into my pack. They were nothing extravagant, just a cribbage board and cards, a small sketchbook and pencils, but they were enough to provide distraction and comfort for an hour or so before bedtime.

After the first night of suggestive dreams, sandwiched between my lover and our teenage daughter, I realized I should have gotten two tents. 

\----------------------------

The second night, I could see my own frustration mirrored in his eyes, glinting through the dark.

“Just imagine,” he whispered between soft goodnight kisses, “how sweet it will be.”

Unable to _not_ imagine it, my dreams continued on their lustful path, taking me all the way back to one of our first meetings. I ‘awoke’ in Minnesota, knowing Hannibal would be knocking on the door any moment, bearing breakfast. Accordingly, I pulled off my shirt and awaited him in just my tented boxers.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” I welcomed him in. He was off guard before he crossed the threshold, and I felt powerful for making him so.

I took our sausage scrambles and laid them aside on the dresser. I took his coat and folded it over a chair. Then I took him by the tie and pulled him into bed.

“Did you want this, even then?” he asked, his expression one of fearful reverence.

“I didn’t know myself well enough to understand my feelings for you,” I answered, suddenly unsure if this was my dream or his.

I recognized the let’s-turn-this-into-a-long-philosophical-discussion look in his eye. Accordingly, I rolled my hips into his, dragging him bodily down upon me, and the words he would have hidden behind were lost in a kiss.

He was still nervous, I could taste it, but he followed my silent instructions without further hesitation. I wriggled out of my boxers, wrenched his belt buckle open, and wrestled us up to our knees. Still fully dressed, he fucked me from behind with long, deep thrusts, no eye contact or idle conversation necessary.

“Breakfast is ready,” he lilted, not nearly as out of breath as he should have been.

And then I was back in my sleeping bag, alone in the chill damp, having apparently overslept. 

\-----------------------------

The next night I had the distinct impression I was stuck in a nightmare, not lost in a dream. I found myself once again with a songbird in my mouth, but this time I told Hannibal _nothing_. I didn’t come clean about Freddie, I didn’t warn him about Jack, I didn’t beg him to run, and I _certainly_ didn’t go down on him. _Please,_ I begged myself, but it was no use.

I paid the price in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, Abigail’s pulse slowing beneath my fingers. I’d betrayed him, so he betrayed me right back.

I snapped awake, already reaching for her. She leapt at my touch, and I could tell just from her breathing that she was crying. Behind me, Hannibal sat up, silent, and I knew we’d all seen the same horrible things. 

We clutched each other for the last hour before sunrise. 

\----------------------------

It was sunset again before we actually spoke. None of us knew what to say. Hannibal especially was haunted. Thankfully we were camping, and he didn’t have to be in charge, didn’t even have to decide what to make for dinner. All he had to do was follow Abigail and her compass. And all I had to do was keep him from wandering off into the woods.

We were making camp when Abigail swerved to give Hannibal an impromptu hug. 

“Loving you is dangerous, but we do it anyway,” she announced, matter of factly, refusing to let go until he hugged her back.

Somewhat restored, Hannibal went to the feed bag for a moment of rustling.

“I meant to save these for our last night in the woods, but I think we could all do with a pick-me-up.”

We huddled together to see what was inside the little tin he’d produced, erupting in stunned laughter when he popped it open to reveal sufficient ingredients for three s’mores.

“Abigail, would you go find us some good marshmallow sticks?” I asked, waiting until her back was turned before pressing my mouth to Hannibal’s.

“You can kiss him in front of me, you know,” she called over her shoulder as she crunched off into the underbrush.

_That_ night, we had better dreams. I still barged my way into Hannibal’s kitchen, gun first. Jack and Alana were still as good as dead. I think even _Beverly_ was dead in this truly debilitating hypothetical. But this time Abigail saved us.

Instead of fear, she projected calm. When I asked her where Hannibal was, she smiled.

“You can kiss him in front of me, y’know.”

I whirled around, dropping my gun and leaping into his arms. I heard a knife clatter to the floor.

“Cheese it, the cops!” Abigail snapped.

We all heard the sirens, but I kept Hannibal from leaving with a firm grip on his shirt collar.

“It would be quicker just to kill them,” I purred.

\--------------------------

Well rested the next morning, we covered much more ground than expected. Abigail bagged a rabbit, and Hannibal made something resembling paella with it. Just as our rations ran out, we reached a set of train tracks. These took us to a station, where we got a train to a bigger station, where we got a train to Boston.

“Right this way, Dr. Chilton,” said the bellhop, leading us down hazy halls.

I might have lost a little time there, the finery of the Plaza such a shock to my system after roughing it for so long. I think there were columns and drapes (definitely drapes), and then there was only the shower, the easing of aches and pains I wouldn’t have had ten years ago. Once I shaved, I finally recognized myself in the mirror.

I emerged into our suite to the smell of spaghetti and meat sauce, bubbling away on a hot plate I didn’t remember acquiring.

The food was not exactly Hannibal’s finest effort, but it didn’t need to be. All it needed to be was _food_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the old salt mines.

After dinner, Hannibal dove for the shower, and Abigail cleared away our mess. When she decided to turn in for the night, she left me with strict instructions to cheer Hannibal up. Unsure how to do so, I sat at the edge of the bed until he returned, refreshed and (sadly) clean shaven.

He sat heavily beside me and toweled his hair. I didn’t know what he needed to hear, but I suddenly knew what I needed to say.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

“Well, yeah, I _should_ be.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You kill people, eat them, and feed them to your friends. You encourage unstable people to kill each other, and you have the skillset and money to get away with all of it. You may very well kill me one day.”

Hannibal did not look comforted.

“Or maybe I’ll kill _you_. Or even Abigail. You think I’ve never imagined slitting her throat? The thing is, the three of us are uniquely equipped to survive each other … and to help each other survive.”

At last he smiled. “Killing you _would_ be a grievous tactical error.”

“I love you so much, and I’m so happy, in a way I’ve never been before. Not with anyone. We’re on the run from the FBI, but it feels more like we’re on our honeymoon.” I stumbled over my words. They sounded so much more vulnerable than they had in my head. “It feels too good to be true.” Now I was the one in need of comfort.

“Making innocents suffer seems to please God. Why shouldn’t He also delight in rewarding the wicked?”

As if to prove his point, Hannibal ‘rewarded’ me for about an hour before we finally slept. We tossed aside our hotel bathrobes to feast upon each other, savoring the sounds and tastes, movements languid and liquid, more one person than two. And when I came inside him, a weight was lifted from both our hearts.

\--------------------------------

We took the scenic route to Japan, detouring <del>rather ominously</del> to Lithuania. Hannibal didn’t give us our instructions until we’d pulled up to the gates of the Lecter Estate.

“I must ask you to do something unpleasant for me. There is a man, held prisoner here for many years. I would gladly end his suffering myself, but …”

“Who keeps him locked up?” asked Abigail from the back seat, sensing as I did that Hannibal could never walk these grounds again, nor would we ask him to.

“Her name is Chiyoh, and I guarantee she will get the drop on you, so make no threatening movements. Answer her honestly, and she’ll do you no harm.”

“Anything in particular we should do to the target?” I set aside my pistol, glad I wouldn’t need it.

“Nothing at first. If Chiyoh would like to kill him herself, then she should get the chance. If she leaves it to you, then you may kill him however you see fit.”

And so we were off, armed only with my knife and her Mauser. The key Hannibal provided still worked, and we strolled up the mile-long driveway.

Just as we spied a woodland cottage, lit and lived-in, its door swung open. The woman within had a rifle quite casually trained on us. We kept walking, and she let us get close enough to see exactly what Abigail was carrying.

“I know that gun.” She didn’t lower her own. “Who are you to Hannibal?”

“I’m his daughter.”

Chiyoh took pause at that, eyes moving suspiciously to me.

“And I’m his … um …”

“Husband,” said Abigail with a smirk..

“_Excuse me_?” Chiyoh’s jaw dropped

I shrugged and blushed, too mortified to even attempt a correction or clarification.

“Is he with you?”

“Yeah, at the gate,” I answered. To my surprise, she immediately took off jogging back the way we’d come. “Hey, do you want us to kill that guy for you?” I called after her.

“As long as you use that gun.”

“Okay, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

\-----------------------

I swelled with terrifying pride when Abigail murdered a nameless, unarmed prisoner in his own cell. She was confident, movements sure, betrayed only by the slightest shiver after it was done. _That’s my girl._ The crack of the gunshot, trapped in the cellar, echoed in our ears for a moment.

“What should we do with him?” I asked when I thought she could hear me.

“I kinda like him as is.” 

We took a step back to apply a critical eye to her design.

He’d been on his knees at the cell door, pleading, when it happened. The corpse had slumped forward, blood and bits dripping down the bars. We hadn’t even touched the door, and the symbolism of the conspicuously undisturbed padlock _was_ too good to pass up.

“It’s beautiful.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I feel like I should take you out for ice cream.”

“How about we make huge sundaes after dinner?”

“Anything you want, darlin’.”

Neither of us flinched at the candid endearment.

“I love you, Dad.”

\-----------------------

Chiyoh was a welcome addition to our little family: a cool aunt for Abigail to look up to and bond with, a sister and confidante for Hannibal, an invaluable interpreter in Japan. After getting over her initial shock at my very existence, she seemed to approve of me. Although, I expect she still thought I was crazy; she knew exactly how crazy one had to be to fall in love with _Hannibal_.

We found a modest apartment in Kyoto and spent a blissful few months recovering our strength and plotting our next steps. We explored the city, ate, drank, and talked for hours on end. Hannibal got to throw a geisha party, and I got a dog!*

Then Margot called.

I was nursing my first cup of coffee, too sleepy to do the time-zone math. “Good, uh, morning?” We laughed. I did miss her sometimes. Another cool aunt that Abigail should get to spend time with.

“Is your better half there?”

“Aw, come on,” I protested. “You just want him to kill your brother, don’t you? I’m trying to get him to retire.”

“He already promised to help me out. I’m just calling to let him know that Mason is of no further use to me, and it would be in everyone’s best interest to take a Hawaiian vacation next week.”

“I’ll tell him.” I sighed for dramatic effect.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just wish _he’d_ been the one to tell me about it.”

“Men, am I right?”

“You are not wrong.”

\---------------------------

Margot provided a private jet so opulent it made me actively uncomfortable (I could only console myself by joining the mile high club in a goddamn queen-size bed). Then she set us up in a luxury villa, just down the beach from her own. I was every bit as agitated in that environment as Hannibal had been in the woods, and I tried to bear it with just as much grace.

Watching Mason Verger die would be worth every moment of it.

* A shiba inu! His brothers and sisters were all destined to be top show dogs, but Maki (also answers to ‘Mack’) was much larger than the breed standard. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a very good guard dog. (And a very good boy.)


	5. Chapter 5

Ludicrous wealth proved to be a persistent trigger for my anxiety. Abigail and I had been raised on blue collar incomes, and only she was young enough to adapt to things like soirees and designer labels and good china. The fact that, if we hadn’t required such strict privacy, our villa would have come with a _butler_ nearly gave me hives.

On our first full day in Hawaii, I was able to escape on a chartered fishing trip. But the very next morning, I was informed that I needed to socialize.

We’d be hosting Margot for brunch, and it wasn’t until I set out the sixth plate that I thought to ask, “Is someone else coming, too?”

But Hannibal couldn’t hear me from the kitchen. Through the blinds I saw a car pulling up the driveway, and I rushed to finish setting the table.

“She’s here!” I warned.

“Got it!” Abigail came lightly down the stairs, angelic in a white sundress. She went out to see if our guests needed any help, and I fetched the host away from his ham.

“That just needs one more minute, would you stay to take it out?” He kissed me before I could answer, an obvious ploy to distract me.

“Who’s the sixth plate for?”

“Margot’s fiancée.”

While happy for Margot, I dreaded the multimillion-dollar engagement ring I would eventually have to compliment. Perhaps I could hide in the kitchen.

The timer went off, and I dutifully hauled the ham from the oven. While I was crouched, the door swished behind me. Thinking nothing of it, I stood and turned.

Sadly, neither the ham nor the casserole dish survived my shock at finding _Alana_ in my kitchen doorway, Maki at her heels. We all jumped at the crash and skittered away from the shrapnel and boiling, sugary splatter.

In what felt like an instant, Hannibal burst in. He had to avert his eyes in anguish.

“We’ll take care of it.” Alana tried to shoo him out.

“But I need a main dish-”

“Wait, _you’re_ the fiancée?”

“We’ll make French toast.”

“But-”

“Out!” I barked, in such a way that both Hannibal and Maki obeyed.

“Are you okay?” Alana asked, once we were alone.

“I will be when my heart slows down. Jesus!”

We danced around the shards to find a broom and a bag of some sort.

“Sorry.”

“No harm done.” I was already feeling much better. “Congratulations, by the way.” I was pleased to note that her ring was very modest and tasteful. I should have known that Margot preferred style over showboating.

“Thanks.”

At my insistence, she told me the whole story of meeting the Vergers. It seems that, in his quest for revenge, Mason chose his psychiatrists based on their proximity to Hannibal (and me). Alana only accepted the job after Margot pitched a scheme to murder Mason, inherit his wealth, and save my life. This plan involved pretending to fall in love, which led to flirting and smooching and, perhaps inevitably, they _really_ fell in love.

“I’ve never seen you happier.”

“Well, I’m still pretty angry at Hannibal for using me to get away with murder, but I believe that living well is the best revenge.”

“And killing his ham. He’ll be sighing wistfully out windows for a week over this.”

“Then I’ll consider the score settled.”

By then, we’d swept up most of the debris and disposed of the corpse. We worked comfortably together, as if we hadn’t recently swapped sex partners, to then gather eggs, bread, bowls and pans.

“I’ve never seen you happier, either,” she said as she stirred milk and cinnamon into the eggs. “You’re making casual eye contact, laughing, smiling … Who knew a stone cold serial killer was exactly what you needed?”

“I sure didn’t.” I flicked on the range and sliced up some bread. “But I think what _really_ helped was finding a stable family despite my own instability. I haven’t known any of them a long time in the grand scheme of things, but they _get_ me. They’re not afraid of me, and they don’t ask much of me. They even got me a dog, first chance they got … speaking of which … ”

“I found a big family with a big farm to take them. Winston’s new best friend is a horse, apparently.”

“Awww.”

As the French toast sizzled away, I left the spatula with Alana and rooted around for possible toppings.

“Should I make whipped cream?” I asked from the fridge.

“Hell yeah.”

\--------------------------

The improvised main course, though not as elegant as any of the sides, was both a big hit and a perfect conversation piece. I felt like Martha Stewart (but with less jail time). Then we retired to the porch for mimosas and official business. When Alana just asked for orange juice, the fact of her pregnancy became the perfect segue into the details.

“All the paperwork is notarized, the press has been alerted, this baby is Mason’s legal and biological heir. If he should die before his son turns twenty-one, Alana and I will become custodians of the inheritance. For obvious reasons, we’ll need to make this look like an accident or pin it on his creepy doctor. I’m confident we can rely on every staff member and security guard. Part of prepping for the vacation was choosing who’d get to come with us.”

“How long till he gets here?” asked Abigail.

“About six hours.”

“Tomorrow night, then,” said Hannibal, eyes lost in the tropical garden between us and the ocean. “Are you allowed to throw a dinner party?”

“Mason _loves_ it when I have guests. Gives him a chance to make them miserable.”

“Then may I take another stab at that ham recipe? I very much wanted you all to taste it.”

Behind his back, Alana smirked. “What do you think about tipping him into the pool?”

“Classic.” I reclined into one of the cushioned swings, and Abigail curled up beside me. “We’re going to throw them _both_ in, right? Make it look like a murder suicide?”

“I hope no one minds if Will and I do the honors?” Margot lifted her glass toward me in a private toast.

No one minded.

\-------------------------

That night I went to bed expecting eight hours (give or take) of snoring into Hannibal’s shoulder. What I got was a parade of strange dreams, not frightening but upsetting enough to wake me every hour or so until morning.

“You should try to get a little more sleep,” Hannibal whispered as he silenced the alarm, instinctively aware of my troubled state of mind. “I’ll bring something up to you in a few hours.”

I nodded into my pillow and tried not to look like I was about to cry.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He ran a hand through my sweaty hair.

“Not really; I know what’s bothering me.”

“The loss of your unborn child.”

“It was just a clump of cells.”

“But it was _your_ clump of cells, yours and Margot’s. And Mason ordered his henchman to rip it from her body.”

“Killing them will help,” I reassured him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murder and some after-murder sex.

We went over to Margot’s place at around six, laden with bags of food and Hannibal’s favorite knives. He, his sous chef (Abigail) and saucier (Alana), settled into the kitchen, apron strings flicking in every direction. Margot and I poured some Dalmore and waited for our prey by the pool. Chiyoh took her rifle to the roof, just in case.

Mason and his quote-unquote doctor were expected back from the beach at seven, but came chatting through the palm trees much earlier. They found Margot alone; I crouched, hidden, in an enormous rhododendron.

“Harris said you wanted to talk to me before dinner,” Mason announced himself, voice neutral and unsuspecting.

Margot launched into a pleading speech about proper dinner etiquette, while I crept as near to Cordell as I could get. Margot had armed me with one of Mason’s favorite pistols, stolen from his room, and I leveled it with gloved hands.

So far, none of this felt as good as I’d hoped it would.

At least it all went according to plan. When Cordell’s back was turned fully toward me, I stepped out and touched the barrel of the gun to his neck, grabbing his shirt so he couldn’t pull away.

Hearing our shuffles and rustles and whispered threats, Mason turned his chair away from Margot. She dropped her shoulder and threw herself at her brother, toppling the chair and cracking his head open on the beautiful inlaid mosaic.

At first I thought the fall had killed him, but he moaned and wheezed, twitching his hand desperately against his restraints. Undeterred, Margot pulled on her own pair of gloves and bent to shove the chair and its occupant, scraping harsh against the tiles, into the deep end.

Cordell cried out, but made no move to intervene. I almost wish he’d struggled, given me an excuse to rough him up a little ... 

Reality untethered as I moved the gun to his temple. My heart didn’t even seem to beat as I pulled the trigger and knelt to plant the gun in his own dead hand.

Stepping over the body, I went to wrap my arms around Margot as the bloodied, sloshing poolwater stilled and the last bubbles broke the surface. She shed a few mascara-black tears into my shoulder.

“I thought it would feel different,” she said as we turned back to the villa.

“Yeah.” I tried to make words that fit, but my mind was full of static, my mouth full of cotton. “It doesn’t feel good, exactly. It feels _right_, though.”

“Vengeance and justice and all that,” she agreed, taking my arm. “It’s scary, too. I’ve never known a life without my brother.”

“I guess when all you know is hell, heaven must seem pretty scary.” I kissed her cheek. “You’ll get used to it, though.”

Chiyoh met us at the back door.

“Well done,” she said, adding a welcome note of pride to the cacophony of my emotions.

\---------------------------

Both Margot and I perked up over dinner, surrounded by a loving support network and sated by tender ham in a sweet, tangy glaze. Our plates were embellished with little tropical fruits, each more delicious than the last. The unpleasant not-quite-guilt died away, replaced by a sense of completion. This _was_ the new normal. Hannibal and I would find a new home for our little family, and Margot would build her own family with Alana. We were alive, we were safe, and we were happy. And Mason was none of those things.

“To Jack Crawford and the whole BSU, may they never investigate this crime,” I led one last toast before dessert.

“Hadn’t you heard?” Alana asked, movements delicate as she set aside her glass. “Jack retired. Your disappearance was just one Miriam Lass too many for him.”

“Probably for the best,” I had to admit. “He should be with Bella.”

“He took her to Florence, and she does seem happier there.”

“I’m sure they’re both happier there.” I nodded sadly. “Who took over when he left?”

“Beverly, actually.”

“Oh, good for her!” Okay, _one_ more toast wouldn’t kill us. “To Beverly.”

\------------------------------

We left our hostesses to discover the body and call the police, and strolled back down the beach. To cover our tracks we took off our shoes and walked through the waves (also just ‘cause it was fun). Abigail and I raced home, and she won with her damnable teenage stamina, giggling at me as I dragged myself up the porch stairs.

A few minutes later, Hannibal and Chiyoh arrived, deep in conversation about our post-Hawaii plans.

“We should go tonight,” she told him, as if they’d had such discussions before.

“What do you think, Will?” He turned to me for backup. “Another week here would do us good, would it not?”

“I don’t think I can handle another week of Margot’s money. But I’m definitely not ready to hop on a plane right this second. Three days?”

“Yeah, I haven’t even gone snorkeling yet,” said Abigail.

“Well, I did want to try the spa ...” Chiyoh gave in gracefully. She was by far the least whimsical member of the family, but we were already rubbing off on her.

I excused myself with a yawn and a meaningful glance at Hannibal.

\-----------------------------

I was just stepping out of the shower when he joined me in the bedroom. He took the towel from my hands and dried my hair himself. His touch was far too gentle for a killer like him … or a killer like me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.”

As if expecting that answer, he leaned in to kiss me, letting the towel fall from his hands. I unwrapped the towel at my hips and let that fall, too.

“Oh, Will,” he breathed.

God, I loved the way he said my name. I loved the way his linen suit felt against my skin, the grip of his fingers, not so gentle anymore, at my neck.

I was determined to make this last, to wring every moment of _living_ out of it. Hannibal, knowing exactly what I wanted from him, reclined into the pillows and let me take it. At first all I did was undress him, examining each new scar as it was revealed.

Having prepared a bit in the shower, I was able to take him fully in only a few thrusts. Reveling in his gasp of undone delight, I rode him slowly and silently. He never broke eye contact even as I leaned back and forth in search of the best angle, his hands lending support to my thighs and flanks and guiding me, finally, to the perfect position.

I cried out, breathing suddenly erratic, and we both pushed a little harder. Then, taking charge, he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me down into a bruising kiss. He rolled us over and ground me into the bed, able to move faster and sharper from on top. Now trapped tightly between us, my cock twitched, and I knew I had only seconds left.

“Bite me,” I begged, hoarse, in his ear. “Please.”

I’d never asked for such a thing before, but he didn’t hesitate. And so I came, his teeth deep in the base of my neck, pain and pleasure turning the whole world white for a long moment.

He rose above me, panting, hips still stuttering in the aftershocks, blood on his lips.

I half expected him to have sprouted antlers, but all I saw was him.


	7. Chapter 7

It took a few days(?) of stopovers, dreadful airline food, and fitful sleep to reach Florence. It took a few more days(?) cocooned in our hotel to recover. Then we began the search for Jack. It took a few weeks of splitting up to cover more ground, sneaking peeks at hospice records and laying a net of spies (nothing fancy, just all the grocers to whom we told entertaining stories about our other American friend, with enthusiastic encouragement to shake his hand should he ever come in).

Chiyoh found him first. Because she was unknown to him, she could approach quite near and make all the observations we needed. That night, we wrote him a letter. Within days we had a reply.

_Will, Hannibal, and Abigail,_  
_I hate to say it was good to hear from you, but it was. If you’re planning to kill me, then I only ask that you wait until Bella’s gone; she’s not aware of much these days, but she’d probably notice losing me._  
_Your offer of dinner is gladly accepted. My place, Friday at 5?_  
_Your friend,_  
_Jack Crawford_

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Hannibal asked, almost facetiously. None of us thought such a thing. We could hear the defeat in Jack’s words.

“Everything I know about him tells me that he’s made a clean break with his old life. _He_ broke. Just like me, just like Alana. None of us give a shit anymore.” A sardonic smile pulled at my mouth. “Congratulations, Dr. Lecter. You broke the whole damn FBI.”

————————-

Friday, 5 o’clock, couldn’t come soon enough. I was worried about Jack, whether I wanted to be or not. He was dealing with a slow, ever-building pain that even I could scarcely imagine. I had to know he’d survive it.

He was expecting us, yet he still seemed startled when he found us on his front steps. We must have looked like ghosts to him.

His eyes flickered with recognition when we introduced him to Chiyoh. “Ah,” he said, smiling at last. “I saw you in the grocery store. So that’s how you found me.”

Hannibal and Abigail abandoned me for the kitchen, leaving me with Jack and Chiyoh, two of the strong-and-silentest types I’d ever known. It was left to me to make most of the conversation. But as Jack relaxed, so did the whole apartment. Hannibal rescued us with dinner (escalopes de veau à l'estragon, yum), and we all began to forget who we used to be and who we had become. For a couple hours, we were just a big family gathered around the table in a time of need.

Afterward, Jack let me look in on Bella as she slept, and I smiled even though it hurt to see her so still, her breath so shallow.

“Good night,” I whispered from the doorway. Somehow I knew it was the last time I’d ever see her.

Sure enough, as I padded back down the hall, I caught the tail end of a hushed conversation between Jack and Hannibal, alone while the ladies plated dessert. All I had to hear was Hannibal murmuring in an encouraging tone to know Jack would end her suffering that very night. He already knew he had to do it, had probably known for months; he just needed someone to tell him it was the right thing to do.

The funeral was a few days later, and for obvious reasons we were unable to attend. Chiyoh, whose picture wasn’t on any most wanted lists, represented us at the chapel and delivered an armful of the finest roses we could find.

————————-

We stayed in Florence for nearly three months, tending to Jack’s emotional wellbeing and making sure he was always well fed. I felt (perhaps undeservedly) like quite the little matchmaker as I watched Jack and Chiyoh discover all the little things they both liked to do. They went to cafés just to watch the passersby. They spent hours at the library, reading and writing and thinking. I imagined they even found moonlit rooftops on which to silently brood, trench coats flapping in the breeze.

Unfortunately, Hannibal had been to Florence before and left _quite_ an impression. There were still old-timers who remembered Il Mostro, and one of them eventually crossed our path. Hannibal had only been a suspect, exonerated when he framed another man, but his sudden reappearance was suspicious enough for this Inspector Pazzi guy to start following us. We had no fear that he could detain us on any local charges, but it was only a matter of time before he made the Chesapeake Ripper connection.

That night we started packing.

In the morning I broke the news to Jack while we took Maki on a long walk through the park.

“We still haven’t decided where to go, gonna see what flights we can find.” A light snow fell. “I hope you’ll come with us.”

“No. _Thank you_, very much, but no. I’ve taken too much of your family’s time already.”

“You’re family, too, Jack. But I know what you mean. You need to start the life _you_ want, not the one we want for you.”

We both smiled.

“Where will you go?” I asked. “What have you always wanted to do?”

“Nah, it’s silly …”

“No, tell me.”

“I used to love Sherlock Holmes when I was a kid, so I’ve always kind of wanted to live in London and be a private investigator.”

“I don’t think that’s silly at all.” I let a moment pass before broaching a far more delicate subject. “Do you think you’ll start dating again? I mean, I know Bella’s only been _gone_ a little while ... but you’ve been in mourning for a long time.”

“I’m not quite ready for that yet. In the spring, maybe. I know I’m not getting any younger … and I’m beginning to regret not having kids.” He glanced at me from beneath his fedora. “Is it all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Well, I can’t speak to _raising_ a child, but yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without Abigail.” I ducked my head to hide a bashful grin. “And, of course, even if you never have kids, trying for one’s always fun.”

Jack laughed, then turned serious. “I know everything looks perfect from the outside, but is Hannibal really treating you well, behind closed doors? I mean, he _is_ a prolific murderer.”

“He treats me very well," I reassured, touched by my friend's concern. "And to be honest, I had a harder time picturing myself with a _man_ than with a murderer. If, all else being equal, Hannibal were a woman, then I would have given in _way_ sooner.”

“Do you keep up with Tattlecrime?”

“Hardly.”

“Lounds is calling you the Murder Husbands.”

My laugh was devoid of humor.

“Is she right?” he pressed, and I knew he wasn’t talking about the ‘murder’ part.

“No. Neither one of us is exactly the traditional wedding type.” I hadn’t meant to sound so disappointed.

“When are you leaving?” he kindly changed the subject.

“Well, Alana and Margot are coming to town tomorrow to meet with one of their suppliers, so we’re going to spend the day with them, then we’ll catch a plane in the evening. How long do you have left on your sublet?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Then London?”

He chuckled. “Then London.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last day in Florence.

I knew something was _odd_ the next morning. The trouble seemed to be food related, because Abigail and Chiyoh ran to the market right after their last bites of breakfast.

“Did something spoil?” If it were anything more serious than that, I’d have been informed already.

“No, I wanted to invite the Vergers over after the museum for a light lunch.”

“Is that wise with the cops breathing down our necks?”

“I have a plan for Pazzi, and it will require Margot’s help.”

“Ah!” I downed my espresso, relieved. “How formal are we talkin’?”

“Your blue suit would be perfect.”

——————————

‘Your blue suit’ meant something very specific to us. I called it my professor costume, and it served me well whenever Hannibal felt like hobnobbing with academics. (And it made me look delicious.)

I could have dressed it down, this being a casual meeting among friends, but I wanted to see the look on Alana’s face when she saw me dressed _up_. Accordingly I chose a complementary tie, cufflinks, and shoes. I combed my hair and switched my glasses out for the wire rims.

Hannibal caught me admiring myself in the bedroom mirror. The blue suit gave me <del>a little too much</del> confidence, and I wasn’t even embarrassed by my own preening.

“What do you think _I_ should wear?” 

He’d never asked me that before. It sounded perfectly innocent, but I once again sensed something strange in the air, something unrelated to last-minute luncheons.

“What’s your plan for Pazzi?” I asked as casually as possible while retrieving a gray three-piece from the closet.

“It occurred to me that he could be bought off. La Questura doesn’t pay as well as some of my enemies.”

“And Margot could pose as an enemy?”

“Precisely. He’ll think he’s sold me out, and our escape will look like a capture.”

“A clever solution.” At least it didn’t involve any murder.

With a quick kiss, I left him to get dressed.

———————————

We met Margot, Alana and Jack at the Uffizi not an hour later. We kept our greetings inconspicuous in the lobby, though we were all thrilled to see each other.

“I’m so sorry we missed your wedding,” I said quietly to Alana.

“Nah, there were about four hundred people there, and somehow I managed to not speak to a single one of them. It was dreadful.”

“Well I’m still sorry I missed it.”

The lot of us kept loosely together throughout the exhibits, all conversation discreet and casual. 

Abigail ranged off on her own, sketchbook in hand, and I had a fleeting desire for a kid more like myself. It passed with a rush of guilt.

In the spring I could suggest a hike through the Alps to remind myself she was _ours_.

“I hope he’s just like Mason,” Margot confessed to me, as we avoided an aggressively religious painting. “The good things, I mean.”

“There were good things?”

“He was smart, handsome, charming in a manic sort of way.”

I snickered.

“But I can tell already, the baby’s going to take after the Blooms.”

“How can you possibly tell?”

“The way he moves. He’s relaxed, like he’s stretching. I imagine a Verger would be more restless, constantly kicking and elbowing.”

“Have you picked a name?”

“Not even close … unless you wouldn’t mind if we named him Will?”

“I’d be honored.” I really _was_ touched, but … _Another kid who’s nothing like me._

Eventually we reached _Primavera_, and I gravitated to Hannibal’s side. He’d told me of its significance, and the danger inherent in returning to it. We could only stay a moment, and I wanted to spend that moment with him.

Then the room went very quiet. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder. Margot, Alana, and Jack had arranged themselves more or less behind me, Abigail and Chiyoh behind Hannibal.

None of them were looking at the Boticelli.

The epiphany hit me like a gentle nudge off a huge cliff.

“Is ... is this our _wedding_?” I asked under my breath.

“If you want it to be.”

I could read nothing in his expression; he wouldn’t want to influence my decision with any of his own emotions. I forced a deeper eye contact than usual, trying to determine whether this was genuine or just some kind of pity proposal. All I found was a hint of bright hazel fear … a fear I alone could allay.

“I do.”

Relief eased into his body, replacing the feigned indifference with a grateful smile and a trembling hand in mine.

“I do, too.”

———————————--

After scurrying out of the Uffizi, we reconvened at our apartment for a potluck luncheon. It was a testament to how nervous he’d been that Hannibal contributed nothing to the meal. He’d trusted Abigail’s quiche recipe and Chiyoh’s taste in salads. He also trusted the Vergers with wine and cheese and Jack with choosing an elegant, understated cake.

“Think you’ll hyphenate?” someone asked over the first glass of champagne.

“I haven’t even _begun_ to process _any_ of this,” I answered. “But I do think ‘the Lecters’ has a nice ring to it.”

That got someone else talking about rings. Next thing I knew, I was waving weakly as our last guest left.

It wasn’t quite losing time, though. I remembered much of what happened (if not the little details), but it felt like a dream. 

Suddenly worried it _was_ a dream, I all but ran upstairs to shower and change.

I added a few things to my already-packed suitcase, swapped out a few necessities for comforts.

Everyone, unbeknownst to me or Hannibal, had conspired to give us a honeymoon. Abigail and Chiyoh would accompany the Vergers as they met with other business partners in Europe. The trip would end in London, where they’d lay the groundwork for Jack to live and work. After a week or so, we’d meet up with our girls in Cannes. 

Margot’s smallest boat, the _Runaway_, was docked in Pisa, waiting to take us wherever we wanted on our way to the rendezvous.

While I was packing, Hannibal showered. Then we were off. 

We didn’t say much on the drive to Pisa. Or while we got underway.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, once we’d caught a strong, northerly wind.

“I keep expecting you to bolt. This was a big step for two people who've only been living together a year or so. And I know surprise weddings are tacky and manipulative, if you feel forced-”

“Ugh, give me a little agency here. I thought it was romantic.” It felt good to be at the helm again, like I was in control of my own destiny as well as the boat’s. “I was somewhere special, surrounded by people who genuinely want me to be happy, none of whom would judge me for declining. I assume Jack put the idea into your head last night?”

“He told me to make an honest woman out of you.”

We laughed.

“Well, I’m glad you did. In fact, I insist on returning the gesture before consummating this godless union.”

“How so?”

“You’ll see.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night.

We docked just after dark.

“Why Genoa?” He asked with false casualness.

“I really like the salami.”

It began to dawn on him.

I appreciated his quiet nonintervention as I dragged him all over my chosen hunting ground. We drifted from jazz club to cafe to record shop in search of someone I wouldn’t mind killing. It was at an antiquarian bookseller that I found my golden ticket. He was browsing the poetry section and shot me a come hither look between the stacks.

Before I could approach him, though, Hannibal yanked me behind a shelf.

“You don’t have to do this, Will. I don’t need this from you.”

“But you want it, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t have to be today. You don’t have to push your boundaries for the sake of sentimentality.”

“I’ve done it for work, I’ve done it for revenge, I’ve done it for self defense ... now I want to do it for love.”

He nodded, still uncertain and as close to ashamed as I’d ever seen him. “Why that one?”

I shrugged. “Not sure. Something about him just bothers me.”

Hannibal looked at me like I’d just failed to draw a clock. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“What?”

“He looks exactly like you.”

“Really?” Curious, I peeked out into the aisle to sight my prey again.

I mean, I guess he was about my age and height and build, and our coats looked alike. And, yeah, he had curly brown hair and a scruff of beard, and-

“Oh yeah, _now_ I see it.” If I weren’t right in the middle of a hunt, I’d have laughed aloud. 

One of the little factoids I’d picked up in Kyoto suddenly became quite prescient. 

“Y’know a Shinto bride wears white for the ceremony because it’s kind of a funeral for her old self. At the reception she wears bright red, reborn as a married woman.”

“As long as this isn’t some roundabout way of expressing any self hatred or suicidal impulses.”

“Don’t worry; I think it has more to do with vanity.” (And there was nothing ‘roundabout’ about it.) “Any chance you’d like to watch me have sex with him?”

“Very much so, but not on our wedding night.”

“Yeah, that’s more of an anniversary thing.”

—————————-

It was absurdly easy to lure Anthony (if that was even his real name) back to the boat. It took little more than batting my lashes, some light quipping, and smiling at the right moments. About as satisfying as fishing in a koi pond.

I poured two glasses of wine, but left them to breathe while we made out on the couch. Assuming Hannibal was hidden somewhere in the shadows, I didn’t play with my food for too long. Anthony thought nothing of it when I put my hands on his jaw, in his hair, around his throat … and he thought nothing of it when I snapped his neck.

I rested for a moment, arms around my still warm victim, shaken by the sheer power I wielded. As with the last murder, it made me feel very little in the way of anger or shame or joy. It was a show of strength, a flex of dominance, more instinctual than emotional.

A sigh from the bedroom doorway confirmed that Hannibal had seen it all.

And _then_ the emotions hit me. For a moment I thought the boat was capsizing. But it was just my gut flip-flopping when I remembered I’d done this for _him_. I was wielding more than power; I held someone’s heart in my hands. Love and lust danced up my spine and gave me the strength to haul Anthony into the head, grabbing my hunting knife en route. 

Hannibal watched, silent and rapt.

“Would you get a tupperware bowl for me?” I asked, all innocence as I shut the door on him.

I shoved my kill into the shower to contain the mess. Wanting to spare my own clothes, I took most of them off, leaving only my boxers and tee. Then I sliced open his torso.

“I knew I’d get inside you, one way or the other,” I chuckled at my own bad joke as I reached up into his chest cavity.

Only a few minutes later, I emerged into the bedroom, reborn in red and offering Hannibal a heart.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, as if it were jewelry or flowers.

He circled around me, taking in every detail, before snapping his gift into the tupperware and turning to go.

“Let’s clean you up.”

I saw great appeal in the idea of getting fucked while covered in blood, but the sheets weren’t ours to ruin, so I followed to the kitchenette.

“Was it good for you?” I asked cheekily as I pulled off my spattered shirt and shorts and threw them in the trash. I stood patiently while he washed my forearms over the sink.

“I was deeply moved by your gift … but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it the highlight of the evening.” He never took his eyes off my hands. “I take great pleasure in taking care of you.”

“Did you fantasize about me the night I killed Randall Tier? While you were patching me up?” It was something I’d long suspected, but never dared ask about.

“Of course.” As if to demonstrate, he rinsed away the soap and lifted my hand to his lips. “What would you have done?” He kissed each knuckle and licked the inside of my wrist, drew the faintest graze of teeth across my veins.

I was hard in an instant, going a little lightheaded.

“I would have let you do anything to me.” _I just would have hated myself in the morning._

Hannibal went to his knees, armed with a dishcloth and swiped at the last few traces of dried blood on my thighs and knees. My cock twitched, inches from his face.

“What would you have done to me?” I prodded, thinking more about what I wanted him to do _now_.

“I’d have poured you a glass of wine,” he deliberately teased, standing up with a smirk.

My disappointment was only temporary, though. Playing along, we went to the couch and <del>chugged</del> enjoyed the wine I’d poured earlier, never intending it for Anthony.

“And then?”

Merlot was all I could taste as he kissed me. His hand went to my jaw, gentler than year-ago me would have expected. I found myself clutching his shirt to pull him closer.

“I would have asked permission for the next part,” he managed to murmur against my mouth.

“You’ve got it,” I managed to reply.

His hand, still achingly slow and gentle, trailed downward. I moaned from deep within my chest when he finally reached my cock, rocking into his touch.

“_Hannibal_,” I tried to warn him. His grip grew only firmer, and it was already too late. 

I came so hard that I had to close my eyes and remind myself that I was in Genoa, not Baltimore, that I’d just killed some random hipster, not Randall Tier … that this wasn’t the first time Hannibal had ever _seen_ me this way.

Dizzy and sleepy, I was steered to the bed and arranged comfortably on my side. Hannibal must have gotten undressed, because he soon spooned up behind me, nothing between us but his obvious un-satisfaction.

“I did say _anything_.”

The smile pressed into my shoulder turned dangerous.

\---------------------------

A week later we arrived in Cannes and wandered leisurely around a street of upscale shops. As planned, we eventually bumped into Abigail, Chiyoh, and Maki and went for a fancy coffee.

“How’d it go in London?” I inquired, once we’d established that everyone was safe and healthy and happy.

“Very smoothly. Alana did most of the work,” said Chiyoh.

“And Margot pulled most of the strings,” added Abigail. “But we picked a little row house and an old-timey office we think Jack's gonna love.”

“Where should we go next?” asked Hannibal.

“I’d like to go back to England.”

We all looked at Chiyoh in barely disguised shock. She _rarely_ had opinions about our destinations.

Unsure if it was appropriate to wink knowingly at one’s sister-in-law, I settled for a raised eyebrow over the top of my americano. She smiled ever so slightly, confirming my most adorable suspicions.

“Mind if we drive? I’d love to see Provence on the way,” said Abigail, cheerfully cracking through the silence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluffy marital scenes, some rapid-fire plot, and a TON of exposition.

Three years flew by, and the fear that my life was too good to be true never abated. The more I stood to lose, the more I feared losing it.

I had to constantly remind myself that I had friends in high places, favors owed to me all over Europe, a small fortune in ill-gotten gains, and a family that would literally (_gladly_) kill for me. It helped to be always on the move and undercover, always hunting so to speak. It was only when things were too calm that my anxiety got the better of me.

And, of course, it helped to have <del>a healthy sex life</del> a stable, loving relationship.

Things were downright ordinary in Paris, though, and I grew restless. I waded back into education as a distraction, posing as a high-end tutor in our high-end neighborhood. Hannibal got a job as a prep cook at a small, fancy restaurant. Abigail took a few classes at different schools, mostly to learn French and make friends.

Abigail took a few lovers, too. If she wanted to be Hannibal when she grew up, then she needed to learn how to get _anyone_ alone and vulnerable, to hone her charisma as she would practice her aim. We’d spent nearly a year in _La Cité_ so that she could invest some real time into these fake relationships.

~~~~~~~

“Who took her out tonight?” I swear it didn’t bother me.

“Remi,” he sneered from the other end of the couch. He swore it didn’t bother him either.

“That’s not so bad, I like him. He’s the kid from the Cordon Bleu, right?”

“His gratin tasted like sawdust.”

“Were _your_ gratins perfect at twenty?”

He coughed and swerved to a new topic. “I prefer Marine, myself.”

“That _hippie_?!”

“You smelled pot on her _once_, Will. I thought you’d like the one that hikes and fishes and wants to be a police officer and-”

“I get your point.” An unpleasant thought occurred, and I scooted closer to Hannibal so I could lower my voice. “You don’t think they remind _her_ of us, do you?”

“I doubt she’s conscious of it,” he patted my knee in reassurance. “If anything, it probably just means she feels safe around them.”

“Or that she wants to murder them.”

“The theories are not mutually exclusive.”

~~~~~~~

And we weren’t the only ones living unexpectedly predictable lives. Jack and Chiyoh had never left London, working as consulting detectives (doing a little vigilante work on the side when it pleased them), caging criminals to their hearts’ content. Their baby would be a year old in April.

Margot, Alana and Billy were thriving at Muskrat Farm. And Margot’s instincts had been right; from his first breath, their son looked and moved just like Alana. And as wonderful as that was, I knew firsthand how frustrating it was to have the recessive traits in the family.

We commiserated one Christmas over some beers.

~~~~~~~

“I want another one,” she confessed once we were alone in the kitchen. “Any interest in donating again?” She somehow managed to be both sincere and lewd, and I was so glad she was my sister-in-law. And I was pretty drunk. (We’d gotten each other whiskey, so of course we had to taste _both_.)

“Yes and no. I’m still very attracted to you and your wife, and I can think of no one better to raise this hypothetical child ... but I’m genuinely scared of passing on my brain chemistry.”

“I get it. No pressure.”

“Let me talk to Hannibal about it, I value his opinion.”

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t ask those kinds of questions without direct supervision.”

We clinked our pints.

“I want another one, too,” I told her, as if it were some deep, dark secret. I was ashamed of wanting anything more than what I already feared to lose.

“What’s Hannibal’s valued opinion on the matter?”

“I haven’t brought it up.”

“Well, just remember he’s almost incapable of saying ‘no’ to you.”

We clinked again.

\------------------

One beautiful fall morning, I noticed Hannibal was in a particularly good mood. I insisted that he take me out for fresh croissants and tell me all about it.

“I know you don’t want to hear a word out of Freddie Lounds’ mouth, but …”

“Go ahead.” As long as it was _good_ news.

“I’ve been avidly following the exploits of a killer called the Tooth Fairy. He targeted seemingly perfect families. Having a perfect family myself, I was anxiously awaiting his capture or death. However, the FBI couldn’t catch him for months as he wiped out family after family. Today’s Tattlecrime headline was ‘Ding Dong the Dragon’s Dead.’”

“The Dragon?”

“Yes. The Tooth Fairy, a man named Francis Dolarhyde, had a girlfriend. He confessed everything to her before lighting his house on fire and turning a shotgun on himself. According to this young woman, Dolarhyde believed there was a dragon within him, vying for control of his body and committing all these murders. He didn’t want it to kill her, so he killed it the only way he knew how.”

“Cause for celebration, indeed.”

“Do you think we should have offered to help Beverly?”

“I don’t know how she’d feel about essentially hiring assassins on behalf of the FBI.”

“Perhaps our advice would have been sufficient.”

“No. We would have wanted to kill that one.”

We reached the boulangerie and placed our order. I thought about perfect families and almost asked for another kid right there at the register. _Wrong place, wrong time,_ I warned myself. _Don’t break the teacup._

\--------------------------

Two weeks later, Jack arrived unannounced, and I knew before he opened his mouth that this had something to do with the Dragon. Over a pot of tea, he told us everything Beverly had told him.

“The Dragon is apparently not dead. Just as the team was confirming the body from the fire wasn’t Dolarhyde, another family was being killed. I know you guys are mostly retired, but Beverly’s coming to us for help.”

Hannibal looked to me.

“I _was_ getting bored …”

\-----------------------------

Thus the Crawfords, Vergers and Lecters converged at an isolated Appalachian hunting lodge for Thanksgiving.

As soon as a nanny ushered the babies off to bed, the grown-ups got down to business.

“I’ve got to run,” announced Beverly, before anyone could say anything _too_ criminal, just as the pecan pie was coming out. “It’s bad enough I stayed for dinner, but I couldn’t resist.”

I walked her to the door and returned her enthusiastic embrace.

“I’m sorry. I know this work is tough on you.”

“It’s much easier without legal constraints.”

“Can you do me one more favor?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve wanted to ask you something for three years now, and the opportunity never presented itself. Could you look sad for a minute? You used to do that a lot more reliably.”

I tried to frown, but it was difficult.

“Hey, Will ... _what’s eatin’ ya_?”

\-------------

They must have heard us laughing all the way in the dining room, because everyone stared when I wandered back in.

“I’ll explain later. Where were we?”

“Jack has volunteered for the unenviable task of coordinating with Miss Lounds. A well placed blind item will let Dolarhyde know that I’m alive and nearby.” Hannibal explained this all very calmly, but with a finality that I found disturbing.

“And you’d arrange to meet him?” Abigail had caught the same scent. "Alone I assume?"

“Yes.”

“He could kill you,” I said, my voice tight.

“Not easily.” Hannibal looked down at his plate. “And I would be sure to mention my loving family, vulnerable and alone in the mountains. If he kills me and comes for you, then he won’t live to regret it. That’s all that matters.”

I felt about to panic, which made me panic about getting panicked …

“Would you help me in the kitchen, honey?” I asked politely through gritted teeth.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violent fluff.

“Apologies, Will, I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“I’m not shocked ... or at least I know I shouldn’t be.” My voice was steady, but my body was shaking. “I knew you’d want to confront Dolarhyde, but I thought you’d let us help. Wolves hunt in packs, especially when the prey is big and dangerous.”

“This man wants to kill the whole pack. I’d rather not give him an opportunity to do so unless absolutely necessary. Besides, he probably won’t let me get within ten feet of him if I’m not demonstrably alone.”

I fell into his arms and held him as hard as I could. “I’m gonna be a wreck while you’re gone,” I <del>sobbed</del> laughed.

“Think about me,” he said softly, cheek coming to rest against mine, “don’t _worry_ about me.”

I tried to answer, but all that came out was a frustrated growl.

“I think my chances are quite good actually. He’s younger and stronger, but I’m older and wiser.”

“If he ...”

“If he kills me, don’t risk your life for a drawn out revenge. The Dragon always goes for the headshot. You should as well.”

“What comes after revenge?”

“Our daughter.”

I nodded and swallowed, throat dry and clenched. _Our one and only daughter._

“Do I have to go back to the party?”

“No. We should both get some rest. I’ll say our goodnights.”

\--------------------------

We had about a week before Hannibal left, and I managed my anxiety very well … right up until the precise moment his car disappeared from view. After that I ceased to function at peak efficiency (to put it delicately).

I’m sure I was a horrible nuisance, although everyone was very patient with me. Alana never complained when I picked her brain for hours on the finer points of Dolarhyde’s psyche. Margot just smiled when I dragged her and Maki on endless mountain hikes. Jack and Chiyoh let me monologue on long drives to the grocery store.

I rarely went to Abigail for anything but comfort food (I would’ve starved if not for her). She reminded me too much of Hannibal, and the last thing I wanted to do was infect her with my worries.

As the day of reckoning approached, Maki had to go. We knew that Dolarhyde incapacitated the family pets first, so he went with the nanny and the babies to a hotel.

On the night of the full moon, having _still_ not heard from my husband, I suddenly looked around and realized that Abigail had taken care of everything while I was busy being distraught.

She’d snuck in our small army of killers and positioned them at each point of entry: Jack and Chiyoh at the front, Margot and Alana in the basement, the two of us at the back door (the Dragon’s preferred way in). Everyone was armed with pistols or rifles and hidden in shadow. It struck me how _safe_ I felt. All I had to fear was … that thing I shouldn’t contemplate. All I had to _do_ was watch in grateful silence as Abigail blew Dolarhyde’s head away through the kitchen window with her trusty Mauser. 

She covered me while I opened the door to confirm the kill. It required _very_ little confirmation, but I shot him through the heart anyway, just because I was angry.

“How can you be so calm?” I asked, utterly in awe of my kid.

She grinned sheepishly. “Well, this guy liked to kill the parents last whenever possible, so I promised myself that I wouldn’t panic until I’d checked his car. If it’s empty, there will be screams and tears aplenty.”

Borrowing a bit of her optimism, I ran with her down the gentle curve of the long, dirt driveway. Just out of sight, at almost the exact same spot I’d last seen Hannibal, was a big, nondescript SUV.

We tore open the trunk, and, for one terrible second, I thought the worst had happened. There was a body, bound and bloody, in the back. Then it moved, and a pair of eyes, alert and alive, glittered in the darkness.

There _were_ screams and tears aplenty, but they were all for joy. Much to Hannibal’s amusement, we clambered inside to smother him in hugs and kisses before checking for injuries. To our further inarticulate relief, what injuries we found were superficial. He was gagged, but I could still clearly read his smile; he’d been just as afraid for us as we’d been for him.

Chiyoh arrived with Dolarhyde’s keys, and still we hadn’t untied Hannibal.

“Need a lift?” she asked, throwing me the kind of wink that we now felt comfortable sharing. In a rare show of affection, she placed a quick kiss to Hannibal’s forehead before driving us to the garage.

This happiness was every bit as intense as my depression had been, and I could only pray it would last as long.

“You would have been so proud of your daughter,” I said as I untied his gag.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’ve missed another one. How can I ever make it up to you?”

“It’s okay,” she sniffled, “you had a good excuse. And you haven’t even missed the best part.”

Chiyoh parked, and the girls hopped out. Abigail moved to untie Hannibal’s feet, but I shooed her off.

“I need to speak with your father alone for a moment.”

“Go easy on him, he’s obviously had a rough day..”

Once they left, I repositioned myself to better gaze deeply into his eyes. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while, but I was too embarrassed ...”

“That you’re curious about bondage?” he teased.

I took the hint and finally, somewhat reluctantly, cut him free. 

“Well I do like having you at my mercy, but I was _trying_ to say that I want another kid.”

“I think that’s a splendid idea.”

We sealed the deal with a kiss, and I helped him limp into the house. 

There were hugs and handshakes all around. Chiyoh helped Abigail field dress her kill and drag it inside. Jack called Beverly, and Margot ran down to the wine cellar. Alana and I took Hannibal upstairs and tossed him in the bathtub to soak.

“Margot asked me something …” I began, emboldened by joy, as we set out the first aid accoutrements.

“She told me.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I’d be willing to go through the whole rigmarole again, but what happens to your gametes is entirely up to you two.”

“Is that what you meant in the garage?” Hannibal asked, audibly disappointed, behind me.

“No, sorry, talking about it just jogged my memory.”

“Then it sounds like another splendid idea.” Relieved, he ducked his head to rinse his hair.

A few stitches, butterflies, and bandages later, Dr. Verger declared her patient fit to celebrate.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More murder fluff!

Flutes of champagne awaited us in the parlor, as did Abigail’s unique artistry.

She’d mounted what was left of Dolarhyde above the fireplace on an enormous rack of antlers, and gathered the whole family ‘round it. She met us at the doorway, holding a pair of pliers. At Hannibal’s inquiring glance, she pulled a handful of bloody teeth from her pocket.

“He may have called himself a dragon, but he’ll always be the Tooth Fairy to me,” she explained.

For a minute there, I thought Hannibal was going to cry.

The other parents stayed only long enough to toast our success, then they left to go kiss their kids.

It was nearly two in the morning when we finished disposing of the worst of the mess. Margot had a ~cleaning crew~ for covering up gruesome murders (one of the few perks of close association with Mason was his network of ne’er-do-wells), but we thought it best that no one discover the victim’s identity.

“If you ever get a nickname, what do you want it to be?” I asked Abigail, as we warmed up by our little backyard bonfire.

“The Chesapeake Shrike. It doesn’t really roll off the tongue, but I like it.”

Hannibal sighed. “Our little girl’s all grown up, Will.”

“What would you be?” she asked me.

“Nothing. I’m happy just being Mr. The Ripper.”

“Oh, come now. You have an identity separate from mine,” Hannibal clucked, putting an arm around my shoulders. “If, like Abigail, you want to honor both your past and present, you could be the Chesapeake Stray.”

“Well, that _is_ pretty apt …”

We all shared a quiet laugh, then doused the fire and wound our ways to bed.

\-------------------

Once alone with my husband, I could _finally_ kiss him properly, y’know, like he’d just come back after being presumed dead for two weeks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked when I’d had enough to tide me over for a few minutes.

“Later,” he growled, pouncing.

After some too-brief, hooray-we-survived sex though, we promptly passed out.

\---------------------

In the morning we packed, then we swung by the hotel to pick up Maki and boarded our flight home.

Again (still?) exhausted, we flopped into our own beds for the first time in a month.

We picked up right where we’d left off, nestled beneath the blankets and drifting sleepily.

“Tell me about the Dragon.” I didn’t really want to know, but I _had_ to know.

“It took many days to earn his trust, first in a letter, then on the phone, then finally in person. We met several times and had some very enlightening conversations.”

“Did you try to help him?”

“Goodness no, I was just probing for vulnerabilities. But I was running out of time. He’d already selected a family of six in Tennessee. So I reluctantly set the trap. At first he didn’t care that I had a family, no matter how easy a target you presented.”

“How’d you convince him?”

“With jealousy. Under the guise of giving him hope for a future of his own, I told him that my family loves me despite what I am. The next time we met, he informed me of his intention to hunt you down. I knew that my best chance of survival was letting him smack me around and drag me back to Georgia.” He sighed and squeezed my hand. “The whole affair was a reminder to truly appreciate you and Abigail. As much as I loved my first family, I can’t imagine they were capable of loving the Chesapeake Ripper …”

“If they’d lived you wouldn’t _be_ the Chesapeake Ripper. But either way, wolves leave their birth pack upon reaching sexual maturity. You would have had to start your own pack eventually, whether the first had died or not.”

Hannibal found my confident, professorial tone comforting, as I’d hoped he would.

“Speaking of which, do you want a boy or a girl?” I went on with a grin.

“Definitely another girl. They’re more fun to dress.”

“And they remind you of Mischa.”

My second attempt at comfort met a rather different reaction. He seemed to melt into sadness and resignation. I should have known better.

“I’m so sorry, I meant it in the happiest possible way.”

“I know.”

Suddenly much more awake, he rolled out of bed and went to the piano.

"Sorry," I couldn't help repeating. Another teacup broken.

"Don't be. It _does_ make me happy to think of her. It just makes me sad, too."

Reassured, I left him to play in peace.


	13. Xmas Special! In January!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's keeping track: I have no idea _which_ xmas this was, next time we hear of the kid he'll be a toddler of ambiguous age. I'm not a math person.
> 
> Also: Sorry it's so late, it was IRL xmas and the whole family was sick … and I went off on a big ol' James Bond jag … anywho …

So, for ~purely~ therapeutic reasons (and just ‘cause we all kinda liked to swing), Margot and I conceived our second child the old fashioned way. Obviously we had to collect a sample rather than capture a moneyshot, but she was a full, even enthusiastic, participant in the donation process. It felt like a much needed second chance.

I was very gentlemanly in suggesting the tryst … I think. It was Christmas Eve at the Farm, Abigail and Billy were asleep upstairs, we’d been drinking for a few hours, and I caught myself checking out our hostesses’ lovely figures in the firelight. I suggested it quite casually, and watched the eyeballs and emotions ping-pong around the room.

But we were all grownups with healthy libidos and nothing left to wrap, so the emotional consensus seemed to be ‘why the hell not?’

And, damn, I wanna build that night a whole _wing_ in my memory <del>river</del> <del>palace</del> cabin.

Feeling very naughty, we crept upstairs and into the master bedroom.

I made it my mission to make Margot feel like a queen, and I happily accepted Alana’s help in the task. Together we got Margot out of her party dress and me out of my slacks. She and I fell to the bed and turned back to Alana.

I only felt guilty for a moment before I remembered that I wasn’t imagining this. She could see me there, and she unwrapped her dress anyway. She winked at me, and I nodded, eager to be taught what would please the mother(s) of my future child.

Alana crawled up the bed to lie on Margot’s other side, and I immediately began to mirror her every movement and posture. As her hand whispered down the inside of Margot’s thigh, so did mine. As her lips grazed up Margot’s neck, so did mine.

I was quite engrossed in our little game of follow the leader, and we’d made Margot come twice before I realized someone was missing.

My head shot up, and I found him seated comfortably at the foot of the bed, contentedly watching us and still fully dressed. I quirked a wondering eyebrow.

“Someone needs to stay vigilant to collect as clean a sample as possible.”

Shrugging, I was about to return my attentions where they belonged, but now _Alana_’s head snapped up.

“What are you afraid of?” she nearly demanded, frowning. “We’re all attractive, and each of us has already fucked at least two of the others.”

“I suppose I don’t know.”

“Of course they want to _talk_,” Margot said, quietly, just to me.

“I know, right?” I grinned.

We busied ourselves with tossing off the last of our clothes (and some passionate necking) while the therapists did their weird, boring foreplay.

“Do you not trust us with your genes?” Now Alana was practically teasing. “I have an IUD; we won’t start trying to get pregnant again till the summer.”

“That does ease my mind …”

“Do you not feel like you belong?”

“That’s not it. It’s more like appreciating fine art. When I see a Rembrandt, I don’t start trying to improve it with my own paintbrush.”

“Well, _I_ think you harbor some lingering guilt about your past manipulation of me vis a vis sex.”

This went on long after I’d tuned them out, Margot mercilessly edging me with her mouth and her hands and her own slick sex.

When I looked over to _finally_ see Hannibal plowing Alana from behind, I hit that edge hard.

Somehow, through some miracle of teamwork, Margot hopped off just in time, Alana pulled me in the right direction, and Hannibal caught, capped and labeled their (hopefully viable) Christmas present. I assume Hannibal went back to driving Alana wild for old times’ sake, but my attention turned fully back to Margot.

This felt _far_ more like righting a wrong than killing Mason had. That was a necessary component, but not nearly the whole of it.

“Do you want a boy or a girl?” I asked as we snuggled into the pillows.

“A boy. The world needs more raised right men.”

“Thank goodness their uncles will be such good male role models.”

It was nice to laugh with her, but it was getting legitimately late, and our spouses seemed to be wrapping up.

The ladies wouldn’t want the little one to find them in bed with another couple on Christmas morning, so Hannibal and I said our goodnights and tottered off to our room, leaning on each other and carrying our shoes.

“Was that really okay?” I asked.

“Of course. Never know when you’ll need to seduce a woman, so it’s good to stay in practice. Not that it wasn’t also enjoyable on its own physical and emotional merits”

“Do you think I could learn how to seduce women? On command, like you do.”

Hannibal laughed. “You don’t have to, Will. Women like you. They appreciate your honesty.”

“Not _all_ of them.”

\-----------

Meanwhile, at a fancy Baltimore restaurant, Bedelia sneezed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In laymen's terms: a crisis.
> 
> Not so much a well-defined chapter as the last little chunk I can, in good conscience, write from Will's POV.

Shortly after slaying the Dragon, we said our adieus to Paris and wandered Europe in search of a new kid. I helped Margot and Alana conceive their second boy, (this one a carbon copy of his mother). And we consulted for Beverly several times, strictly over the phone (no one like Dolarhyde would come along for a _while_). Before we knew it another three years had passed ...

\------------------

“What’s the matter?” I couldn’t help but notice, over his shoulder, that Hannibal was reading TattleCrime.

“Dr. Chilton is moving up in the world, I’m afraid. He’s leaving the hospital to focus on writing drivel about us.”

I could only make a small, disgusted noise. At least he wasn’t tampering with the criminally insane anymore. I started to turn back to my own reading.

“The new director is Bedelia DuMaurier.”

I wasn’t particularly concerned, but Hannibal was. Since he knew Bedelia better than I did, I deferred to his state of mind. We were more careful in our travels thereafter.

~~~~~~~~~~

While her parents searched for her future little sister, Abigail searched for something else. She told me what that was while we were fishing for harbor cod in Copenhagen.

“I want to find someone to love,” she explained softly. “I want what you and Hannibal have.”

“You’ll find it.” _A pack of her own._ I’d always known this day would come, even if I’d refused to dwell on it.

“Well, no offense, but I’d like to find it before I’m as old as you two were.”

I could laugh at that. “It wasn’t _our_ fault we didn’t meet till I was an aged spinster.”

“Yeah, but I’m not as patient as he is. He told me that he turned down several offers of fully-informed companionship, waiting for the perfect one he hoped was out there.”

“Thankfully, you’re not as picky as he is either.”

We could both laugh at that.

\-----------------

Those three years, despite all our selfish longings, were wonderful.

Then Hannibal got caught.

Amazingly, I was more annoyed with him than anything else. He pulled some self-sacrificial nonsense at Heathrow, abandoning us at a coffee shop to intercept the authorities he’d noticed on our tail. Jack tells me that I was _still_ rolling my eyes when we met him at the curb.

I only had the luxury of being annoyed because I had no fear whatsoever that Hannibal’s _life_ was in danger. That wasn’t Bedelia’s kink. She wanted to outsmart him, to manipulate him, to punish him. She probably wanted to fuck him. She wanted everything _but_ to kill him.

\----------------

Abigail and I dutifully packed up our lives and moved to Muskrat Farm for a few weeks. We’d have to find more permanent lodging in the wilds of Maryland so we could stay close by.

As soon as we were ensconced in a cabin near the Savage River, I invited Beverly over for coffee and pastries.

“I’m sorry, Will, she forced my hand.”

“I know.”

“And there’s nothing I can do to help within the system. At least not yet.”

“I know. Do you really think I’d ask _that_ kind of favor?”

Mouth full of danish, she shook her head.

“All I want is a way to send an occasional message back and forth.”

She was amenable to this, and agreed to begin identifying suitable candidates for the all-important role of messenger.

“At the risk of sounding too much like Jack, I’ve already been scouring the Academy and some feeder schools for the next Will Graham.”

I threw her a look.

“Don’t worry, I’ll treat the next one better than Jack treated the last one.”

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

\--------------

Life without Hannibal was dull. _Barely worth living,_ I tried not to tell myself as I fished for the fiftieth time since Heathrow. Abigail sat on the bank, sketching the tranquil scene. She, of course, handled the void in our lives more gracefully than I did. Behind her warm, reassuring eyes she was ever calculating our options. She threw herself into all of her hobbies: art, music, fishing, cooking, hunting. I understood it all as her way of never having to talk. She could sketch a landscape and plot her father’s rescue. She could play scales for hours and envision Bedelia’s demise. She could glare at the roast in the oven and spin theories, each farther fetched than the last.

All we could _really_ do, though, was wait, and hope Beverly got lucky.


End file.
